For Cindy

Anticipation: waiting for something to happen. Only I didn't know what I was waiting for. Weeks before we had slotted time for Pere Lachaise cemetery, a famous burial ground for those that want to be remembered and those we want to remember. Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde and thousands of others call it home and we had 2.5 hours to see what there was to be seen. Rick Steeves, the travel entrepeneur that had talked us through Athens was here again, directing my steps, adding music to enrich the scene and making sure we saw what others came to see.

But Rick didn't know I'd been here before and I didn'tknow what I wanted to see until I started walking. June 11, 2001 I pushed my daughter, Rachel, down these cobblestone paths. It was a lumpy ride in a wheelchair but she never complained. The doctor said she had somewhere between 5 months and 5 years to live and a good year of that was behind us. This was our chance to deepen our connection, do something different and mostly to see EuroDisney (she'd been to Anaheim and Florida so this was a bucket list thing). Weather while we were here was crap and we wore raincoats most days including the day we visited Pere Lachaise.

She had a lively sense of dying, of wanting to know how they were remembered, of what the afterlife looked like. I'd been seeing a therapist who helped me get on her level and tried to see the future through her eyes. So together we walked this park of people who didn't want to be forgotten. We visited Jim Morrison and Voltaire but mostly we wandered the quiet paths and absorbed the tranquility of the space. Rick Steeves pointed out today that it's about the same area as Disneyland. We wandered and looked, contemplated the lives lived and lost and she was comforted by it. It was like seeing a home you'd bought but but go back to see before moving in so you could decide what furniture to bring with you.

As we strolled we happened upon a sepulchre with her name on it. Famille Rachel had been placing their lost ones there for the better part of 200 years and it was a photo op not to be denied. An arch with her name framed the young lady in her wheelchair, bent but smiling in her blue raincoat. And that's what I looked for today. It didn't come as part of the pre-programmed tour and in spite of my swivel head search had not bee seen. As we were about to leave the park I saw a security guard focussed on her cell and interupted "Parlez-vous Anglais?". "A leetle". I prattled what I wanted, she shrugged and pointed. There was an administration building not far off and as luck would have it (check out Looking for Nika) they were open. This lady spoke even less English but Deb stepped in and made it happen. We left with precise directions to the spot I had taken Rae's pic 17 years ago. It was less dramatic than I'd remembered and the sun was on the wrong side but there I was, breathing deep of the past.

And all of that was hours ago. We got home, I typed as Deb showered and then we headed out for our last night in Paris and another new adventure. This time it was jazz, Parisian jazz to be precise, and as cranial-crashing as only new sounds can be. She'd found someone online that offered to take the uninitiated to a dark corner of Paris for a musical experience that we couldn't have found on our own. I'm certain that's true because there is no way that we would have found this pay-by-donation venue with its excellent musicians and hidden location. We took the subway to a prescribed spot and waited at a cafe. And waited. I neared the end of my glass of wine when a young woman slid close on her bicycle. "Deb?" she asked and Deb nodded. It was a like a drug deal from a movie. I excused myself to answer the call and let them speak French and as the bladder relaxed asked myself "What the f... am I doing here?" When I returned the bill was paid and we were being led across the road to a wide gateway I hadn't noticed from our perch. Beyond was a wide cobblestone path going up to an abandonded building. Colourful lights lit our way and in the widening ahead plastic tables and chairs accomodated our co-conspirators. We wended through, passed through a door, then another and found ourselves in a large dry deserted space. It was the  sort of space you'd expect to find the homeless with graffiti the only decoration on the decomposing walls. But on one side was a bar with beer taps and the far end had a stage. We kept going and found a courtyard beyond so we grabbed a few seats and gotinformed about what was about to happen,

Our guide was a young woman, part jazz singer, part music therapist and she gave us the skinny on what we were about to see. "Just wait", she said. A few moments later an extremely tall black man came through a door and said something in French that got everyone moving. We managed seats in the front row and faced a group of musicians who had taken a vow of never getting beyond 30. All male, a nerdy type sat at a grand piano to my left, five sax players of various sizes aligned the front row and the rhythm section filled the rear. The stand up bass and drums created a below decks engine that pushed these front runners along at a captivating pace that got everyone in the room ectstatic. The guy on trumpet, squeezed between the saxes and piano, would have played lead guitar if he was with Led Zepplin. People danced and clapped, swayed their heads and slapped their knees. An hour and a half later and I'm saying "That's what I've got to be working on".

An amazing show but like all good things had to come to an end, kind of like this vacation. It's around midnight and we have to be up early enough to strategically pack our bags to transport our treasures home. I'll sign off for now but still have some treasured memories about this pilgrimage I need to share and honestly, lots of thoughts seeking release. Talk soon.